Guest Rights [Solo]
Dec 31, 2015 0:43:25 GMT -6
Post by Selibas on Dec 31, 2015 0:43:25 GMT -6
Selibas had rode for long silent days on Lightning with Dale and the other members of his small guard. There were the two brothers Khasar and Kaichun, there was Coke who was tall and broad and had been taught a bit of Ilian fencing, and Bekter the silent man who’d joined Selibas while he was wandering. Since receiving the news and making his decision to cut short his time with the rebels, Selibas had not spoken much, which he knew was wrong. He should have given the men a signal, something to show them that he was not too far in a pit of grief to be salvaged. He just couldn’t, he was so low he could not make out the light pouring into his little hole.
It wasn’t that any of them minded horribly anyway. Bekter and Kaichun would probably be alright if they never said another word. Coke and Dale liked to talk, but didn’t feel the need to make small talk during a quick ride such as this. The only one whose discomfort Selibas could feel was Khasar. The Swordsman loved to talk, more than almost anyone the short Khan had ever met, and he could feel the man wanted to say something at every landmark they passed. When anything was ever said, about where camp should be made, or when the horses should drink, it was almost always Khasar who would answer on what a good idea that was. Still, the young man tried to be respectful of his Khan’s obvious desire to be left to himself.
Eventually they had made their way just out of Bern, to one of the small villages near Sacae’s border with the mountain country. It was populated mostly by the folk of Northern Bern, it was no larger than a few dozen houses and buildings, and it was near a stream that ran through a small forest. Selibas had used a bit of his gold to get each of them their own room, and had eaten his first good meal in days. They had been rationing what little food Dale and Kaichun had managed to hunt in the mountainous region, and it was good to sit down to some mutton and fruit.
Upon the night of their arrival, Selibas couldn’t sleep. Slumber had never come naturally to him in a bed, and though he had gotten a bit better about it, but thinking far too many thoughts that were far too depressing in furniture one wasn’t comfortable with made slipping into happy dreams a bit difficult. So, the Little Wolf grabbed his sword belt, with his three smaller swords in their sheath and then walked outside. The cool night air hit the short Sacaen who’d been insightful enough to put on his jacket, and he let it brush over him. He’d always like the cold, probably out of necessity. Winter’s in Sacae were harsh when you had no ger.
After a short walk, Selibas made his way to the small stream and began to practice his movements. Working with Caladbolg, he went through every step and swing that his teacher had taught him. Twice. At the end of his second go round, he became aware that he was being watched by three men. Sheathing his sword just below his slim hilt and above his light sword Curtana, the little wolf ran his right hand through his hair, feeling the thick sweat that had cropped up and made his head feel the brunt of the night chill. He gave them no verbal greeting, he merely nodded and raised a hand as if to brush away a gnat.
The trio was not one you would expect to find by a stream along the Bernese border late at night taking in the cool breeze. Two of the trio were tall, one Sacaen and one Ilian by the look of it. The other was only a few inches taller than Selibas. The tall Sacaen wore a long saber on his hip, and wore little armor. His light green hair hung in a tight braid over his right shoulder, and in his arms Selibas saw an abundance of firewood. His Ilian companion wore a dark blue cloak that covered nearly his whole body, he had short cropped black hair, and wore a grim expression. Both men were quite thin. The short Lycian was the thickest man, and wore leather armor on his chest and arms. He had a small round shield, and a straight bastard sword strapped on his side. His hair was a bright red, a color that Selibas did not believe he had seen before.
It was the Sacaen who spoke then, “Hello, we are travelers who sought to avoid the hustle of the town. We were searching for a place to make camp and fire for the night. Would you join us at our fire?” He was smiling, but it was cold. The smart thing to do would be to walk back to the inn, go inside, and try to get some sleep. He was not in the mood for the smart thing. He simply gave a curt nod.
The Sacaen had quickly set the wood down and from his cloak the Ilian produced the necessary supplies to start a fire as well as three large bags. The Lycian and Sacaen set out three bed rolls from one of the bags as the Ilian worked, and before long, they truly had a little camp started. Then all four sat around the fire, and the Lycian produced a bottle filled with red liquid that Selibas believed to be wine. The Sacaen pulled out his own bottle of black. The Khan felt his ears perk up as he saw it, and the Sacaen smiled. “Black Aragh.” He extended it to Selibas, and the Khan didn’t hesitate. After opening it, Selibas took two gulps, then handed it back.
The Ilian said, “You can drink more than that.” The Lycian shot the man a look, and for a moment the man showed regret. As the Sacaen took the bottle back, and slid the bottle into his bag without taking a drink himself, he said, “Correct me if I’m wrong, but you are Selibas of Sacae correct? The rebel leader with ties to multiple tribes on the plains? Your people have attacked the Quital for the past few years without rest?” Selibas nodded. The Lycian grinned and said, “Well then, we’ve heard you’re a master swordsman. One that would take at least two assassins to kill.”
Selibas let his right eyebrow raise, “And you brought three.” The Lycian smiled, “And we brought three.”
The Khan stood, and the Lycian looked at both his companions, “Gentlemen?” The Sacaen stood and said, “Better let me, I doubt one of you could kill a Sacaen yourself.” The Lycian snorted, as the Sacaen jolted to his feet. Both the plainsmen walked a few feet from the fire, and drew their swords. Selibas’ was Caladbolg, the other man’s looked to be made of iron or steel much the same. Both took their stance, Selibas with his right foot forward, and his sword parallel with the ground, knees bent. The other man aimed his feet at Selibas but stood so that the pair’s shoulder’s were perpendicular, making him an incredibly thin target. He held his sword at his level, but held it so that it pointed up diagonally. Poised, neither of them made a move beside the crackle of the fire.
It wasn’t that any of them minded horribly anyway. Bekter and Kaichun would probably be alright if they never said another word. Coke and Dale liked to talk, but didn’t feel the need to make small talk during a quick ride such as this. The only one whose discomfort Selibas could feel was Khasar. The Swordsman loved to talk, more than almost anyone the short Khan had ever met, and he could feel the man wanted to say something at every landmark they passed. When anything was ever said, about where camp should be made, or when the horses should drink, it was almost always Khasar who would answer on what a good idea that was. Still, the young man tried to be respectful of his Khan’s obvious desire to be left to himself.
Eventually they had made their way just out of Bern, to one of the small villages near Sacae’s border with the mountain country. It was populated mostly by the folk of Northern Bern, it was no larger than a few dozen houses and buildings, and it was near a stream that ran through a small forest. Selibas had used a bit of his gold to get each of them their own room, and had eaten his first good meal in days. They had been rationing what little food Dale and Kaichun had managed to hunt in the mountainous region, and it was good to sit down to some mutton and fruit.
Upon the night of their arrival, Selibas couldn’t sleep. Slumber had never come naturally to him in a bed, and though he had gotten a bit better about it, but thinking far too many thoughts that were far too depressing in furniture one wasn’t comfortable with made slipping into happy dreams a bit difficult. So, the Little Wolf grabbed his sword belt, with his three smaller swords in their sheath and then walked outside. The cool night air hit the short Sacaen who’d been insightful enough to put on his jacket, and he let it brush over him. He’d always like the cold, probably out of necessity. Winter’s in Sacae were harsh when you had no ger.
After a short walk, Selibas made his way to the small stream and began to practice his movements. Working with Caladbolg, he went through every step and swing that his teacher had taught him. Twice. At the end of his second go round, he became aware that he was being watched by three men. Sheathing his sword just below his slim hilt and above his light sword Curtana, the little wolf ran his right hand through his hair, feeling the thick sweat that had cropped up and made his head feel the brunt of the night chill. He gave them no verbal greeting, he merely nodded and raised a hand as if to brush away a gnat.
The trio was not one you would expect to find by a stream along the Bernese border late at night taking in the cool breeze. Two of the trio were tall, one Sacaen and one Ilian by the look of it. The other was only a few inches taller than Selibas. The tall Sacaen wore a long saber on his hip, and wore little armor. His light green hair hung in a tight braid over his right shoulder, and in his arms Selibas saw an abundance of firewood. His Ilian companion wore a dark blue cloak that covered nearly his whole body, he had short cropped black hair, and wore a grim expression. Both men were quite thin. The short Lycian was the thickest man, and wore leather armor on his chest and arms. He had a small round shield, and a straight bastard sword strapped on his side. His hair was a bright red, a color that Selibas did not believe he had seen before.
It was the Sacaen who spoke then, “Hello, we are travelers who sought to avoid the hustle of the town. We were searching for a place to make camp and fire for the night. Would you join us at our fire?” He was smiling, but it was cold. The smart thing to do would be to walk back to the inn, go inside, and try to get some sleep. He was not in the mood for the smart thing. He simply gave a curt nod.
The Sacaen had quickly set the wood down and from his cloak the Ilian produced the necessary supplies to start a fire as well as three large bags. The Lycian and Sacaen set out three bed rolls from one of the bags as the Ilian worked, and before long, they truly had a little camp started. Then all four sat around the fire, and the Lycian produced a bottle filled with red liquid that Selibas believed to be wine. The Sacaen pulled out his own bottle of black. The Khan felt his ears perk up as he saw it, and the Sacaen smiled. “Black Aragh.” He extended it to Selibas, and the Khan didn’t hesitate. After opening it, Selibas took two gulps, then handed it back.
The Ilian said, “You can drink more than that.” The Lycian shot the man a look, and for a moment the man showed regret. As the Sacaen took the bottle back, and slid the bottle into his bag without taking a drink himself, he said, “Correct me if I’m wrong, but you are Selibas of Sacae correct? The rebel leader with ties to multiple tribes on the plains? Your people have attacked the Quital for the past few years without rest?” Selibas nodded. The Lycian grinned and said, “Well then, we’ve heard you’re a master swordsman. One that would take at least two assassins to kill.”
Selibas let his right eyebrow raise, “And you brought three.” The Lycian smiled, “And we brought three.”
The Khan stood, and the Lycian looked at both his companions, “Gentlemen?” The Sacaen stood and said, “Better let me, I doubt one of you could kill a Sacaen yourself.” The Lycian snorted, as the Sacaen jolted to his feet. Both the plainsmen walked a few feet from the fire, and drew their swords. Selibas’ was Caladbolg, the other man’s looked to be made of iron or steel much the same. Both took their stance, Selibas with his right foot forward, and his sword parallel with the ground, knees bent. The other man aimed his feet at Selibas but stood so that the pair’s shoulder’s were perpendicular, making him an incredibly thin target. He held his sword at his level, but held it so that it pointed up diagonally. Poised, neither of them made a move beside the crackle of the fire.